


All The Way To You

by AgnesBlue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Orphan Stiles Stilinski, Past Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11062047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgnesBlue/pseuds/AgnesBlue
Summary: “Can you make a stop at Beacon Rock? It’s a little town close by, maybe forty miles away from where you are.”He’s instantly irritated. “Why?”“I need you to pick up a present I got for Mason,” Laura says.AU in which Derek is returning to Beacon Hills after years of being away. Laura calls him while he's on the road, asking him to make a stop to pick up an omega she's purchased as her son's gift.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a slew of Sterek fics that I started writing a long time ago and never got around to posting on account of being a super slow-ass writer. At this point, with the show being where it is, I don't know if there's a point to uploading any of them since I'm not sure if anyone is really around to read them anymore, and a lot of them are still unfinished. However, I'm not ready to part with the fandom yet and it seems like a waste to let them go to rot, so I've decided to upload them when I can.

Derek gets the call from Laura when he’s on the road. He pulls the car to a stop on shoulder and grabs the phone out of his jacket pocket.

Her voice is tinny, and he can make out the faint sounds of teenagers hollering about in the background.

“Where are you right now?” Laura asks. She’s harried, he can tell.

Derek names a place he just passed through, a three day’s drive away from Beacon Hills.

“Oh good,” Laura says in relief.

He takes the time to slip the tip of a cigarette between his mouth and light the end before answering, cupping the flame so the manure-scented wind doesn’t snuff it out. He has a feeling that he's going to need it. “Good? Why?”

There’s a brief moment where he wonders if the party has been cancelled, and she’s going to tell him there’s no need for him to come home. But alas, that’s not the case. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t disappointed.

“Can you make a stop at Beacon Rock? It’s a little town close by, maybe forty miles away from where you are.”

He’s instantly irritated. “Why?”

“I need you to pick up a present I got for Mason,” Laura says.

“Geez, if only there was a company that specialized in getting packages from one place to another. Oh yeah. FedEx.”

Laura bypasses the sarcasm. “The idiots somehow managed to screw up the address and sent him to the wrong place.”

Derek frowns deeply, the line cutting between his brows as he takes another drag of the smoke. “Him?”

“Yes, him. I bought Mason an omega. He’s going to be going into rut soon,” Laura says, and Derek detects the hint of pride.

“You want me to pick up some omega and drive with him for the next eighty hours to Beacon Hills?”

He had been about to think ‘fuck it, it's not that out of the way’ and tell her that he’d do it, but this new information has him _pissed_. If this gift is alive and talks and needs to pee every so often, then that changes things.

“Yes, Derek, that’s what I want. I know you have an unquenchable, burning annoyance for anything that breathes that isn’t you, but it won’t be the end of the world. The company is trying to find someone to drive him over here, but they don’t have anyone in the area at the moment and they’re telling me it’s going to take a while before they can get someone to pick him up. It might take a couple of days.”

Derek resists from telling her that Mason isn’t some airhead bimbo having a sweet sixteen bash. Waiting a few days for a fucking present won’t kill her son. And if it does, maybe he deserves to die.

He also wants to swear, because who asks for this kind of favor from a long-lost brother coming home for the first time in _six fucking years_ , but he keeps his mouth clamped shut.  _You’re going there to patch things up, not make things worse. Remember that._

“Why can’t he just take a bus?”

“You know full well omegas aren’t allowed to travel without documents. He doesn’t have permission to get on public transportation.”

Well, he didn't know that before, but he does now. Wonderful.

“Derek?” Laura says. She’s always been impatient, and that impatience is showing now, in spades. She wants an answer.

“Yeah?”

“Can you do it? Could you please do this for me? I really need everything to be perfect for the party after all the shit me and Aaron put him through last year... It would be one thing I can cross off my list of things I need to get done and don’t have to go crazy over.”

_You’re going there to go patch things up._

Derek sighs “Yeah, I’ll do it. Send me the location and what to look for.”

He can only imagine the quiet fury that he’ll be on the receiving end of if he refuses. He doesn’t want to deal with that shit for the two days he’s going to be in town. Sure, he can stay at a hotel, but that isn’t the point.

Laura is instantly ecstatic, her tone already different as she thanks him profusely. _I’ll text you the address right away. Thank you, Derek. Thank you, thank you so much, you have no idea happy you’ve made me. Drive safely._

Derek hangs up, angry at himself. He waits for that realization, that quiet assurance he’s made the right choice, because  _family_ , but it doesn’t come.

He yanks at the gear, and drives back onto the highway.

 

* * *

 

He arrives at the place thirty minutes later, a dark cloud over his head. His mood is foul.

Beacon Rock is a dusty little in the middle of bumfuck nowhere town identical to the countless others he’s passed through since the start of his trip, the kind where there’s a gas station, a bar, a lone milk cow glumly munching on grass and the thick aroma of manure each time a draft kicks up. A poor man’s Beacon Hills.

So his nephew turned out to be an alpha. Laura and her husband must be so proud. Every pack wants an alpha. They aren’t born easily these days. Something in the water, according to backyard science rumors.

He’ll definitely be needing something for his ruts, something soft and plush to take the manic edge off. Derek remembers his own ruts with great displeasure. Unbearably painful, sweaty, far too much body fluids involved. He hadn’t clicked with any of the multitude of omegas his parents had acquired for him and he’d gone it alone for the most part.

No, he doesn’t miss that time at all.

Laura had said the omega would be in front of a shop. And there he is, some scrawny teenager sitting alone on a bench in front of those confused ‘we sell everything from Kool-Aid pickles in a jar to sex toys’ stores.

Derek parks in front of the store and turns off the engine. He slips out another cigarette and lights it. He takes in a deep drag and wishes he’d had the hindsight to just ignore the call from Laura, not only today, but two weeks ago. He wouldn’t have been in this fucking mess to begin with.

He’d frozen, seeing the string of familiar numbers on his cellphone screen. And he’d pushed the button in a numb, blind panic, his instincts telling him that Laura wouldn’t have been calling unless it was something truly important, and wouldn’t you know it, that something truly important had turned out to be an invitation to her son’s 16th birthday bash. Oh joy.

Derek takes another mulish drag. Shit for instincts, that’s what he had. Back when he was a teenager, what with the deal with Kate, and even now, years later. There was no escaping that fact. Instincts so bad that it's not even shit, it's diarrhea.

The kid had turned his head towards his Camaro when Derek slid it into the empty space of the lot. Their eyes meet, and the kid quickly ducks his head. He’s nervous and scared – Derek can smell his fear even from the inside of his car, a thick cloying slab to top off the manure funk. He wonders who the fucking moron is that left an omega unattended to in a place like this.

It’s nearly six in the afternoon, and the sky is deepening around him, the sun an orange glow. He watches the kid fidget, glance at Derek under a sweep of lashes, glance at the ground, glance back up at Derek again.

Derek’s finally done with his smoke and only then does he leave the car. Gravel crunches under his boots as he makes his way over, and all along the fifteen or so steps that takes him from here to there, he wonders what the hell he’s doing. He dreads the thought of having to talk to the kid, the tedious task of having to introduce himself, of listening to the kid’s stupid voice.

The kid watches him approach, heart pounding like a drum in his thin chest, shifting as if he’s preparing to dash off if he has to. Good luck with that, Derek thinks.

“You Stiles?” he says.

“Ye..yeah?”

Close up, he can see that the kid’s face is a horrible mess of bruises, some fading, some still new. His lips are split and there’s a thick purple line around his neck, as if he’s been choked with something, maybe a belt. Derek has no idea which reservation he’s been sent from, but it’s obvious they don’t treat their omegas gently. 

“I’m here to pick you up.”

“You,” the kid says, then swallows. He’s wearing an ugly T-shirt and a grubby pair of jeans, and he looks like a transient. Smells like one too. “You’re him?”

“Yeah.” Derek tilts his head towards his car. “Get in.”

The kid lifts his butt off the bench, then hesitates. “How do I know it’s you? I’m not going to go off with some random stranger off the streets.”

Derek is mildly impressed, despite himself. The kid has spunk.

“You were supposed to be at Beacon Hills, right?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Derek frowns. “You don’t know?”

“They just told me to pack my things and get ready to leave in the morning, then I ended up here. They wouldn’t tell me anything else. I know I’ve been sold to an alpha, but that’s all I know.”

Derek grimaces in irritation at how smoothly things aren’t going. “Do you have papers on you?”

“…I…”

The kid is mistrustful, scared, and he has every reason to be. Again, Derek has to wonder about the moron that left an omega alone in a place like this. They deserve to be shot in the face, at least twice.

“Give me your papers.”

The kid begins to pat at his pockets until one of them crinkles. He pulls out an envelope inserted in a plastic sleeve, then hesitates. “I’m not supposed to open this.”

Derek snatches it from him, ignoring the kid’s mouth falling open in surprise. He rips it open and quietly scans the information.

Stiles Stilinski. Omega #D-2305-735. Seventeen years of age. Purchased by Laura Hale for the amount of 300 hundred dollars.

 _300 hundred dollars?_  He’d heard the price of omegas had dropped, gone dirt cheap, but he hadn’t realized how cheap.

“Yeah, you’re supposed to come with me.”

The kid worries his lower lip with his teeth, clearly loath, like he said, to follow a complete stranger off the street. Derek understands his position, but he’s in no mood to waste time cajoling and convincing some kid he’s harmless.

“Suit yourself. No one else is going to be here for you, so…” Derek shrugs. “Have fun staying out here all night by yourself. Try not to get killed.”

He turns around to head back to the car. He’s halfway there when the kid calls out, “Wait!”

Derek doesn’t turn around, but he hears the kid hurrying over.

They stare at each other over the roof of the Camaro.

“Decided I’m not a serial killer?” Derek asks.

“No, not yet, but…you seem marginally safer than the guys inside the shop over there. They were… yeah, they scare me.”

“Get in.”

The kid opens the door and scrambles inside. He’s gangly, arms and legs thin and coltish, and stuck on each foot is the stinkiest, rattiest pair of sneakers Derek has ever seen. He stands there, considering telling the kid to move on over to the back, then thinks for the millionth time,  _fuck it_.

The kid just sits there in the passenger’s seat, heart rabbiting, and Derek waits.

“Wha-what?” the kid breathes out shakily when he realizes Derek’s watching him. He’s trying to sound tough, but he’s scared, and it shows.

“Seat belt,” Derek tells him.

“Oh. Right. Seat-belt.”

The kid fumbles around to clip the belt into the buckle, still clutching tightly onto the bag with one hand.

“You can toss that behind there.”

The kid hesitates. “No, I’d rather keep it with me, if that’s all right.”

 _The back part of the car is going the exact same place the front of the car is going_ , Derek thinks, but doesn’t say. “Do whatever you want, I don’t give a shit.”

Derek pulls out of the parking lot. Minutes later, he’s back on the interstate, the tedious sight of cornstalks greeting him once again.

 

* * *

 

They’ve been on the road for hours.

For the first two or three of them, the kid had been an overly twitchy mess, jumping each time Derek so much as moved his hands, but he’s now slumped in his seat, asleep, head tilted away from Derek at an exhausted slant. He’s still clutching his threadbare knapsack as if it’s his baby.

It’s nearly midnight, and Derek knows he has to make a decision soon. He’d briefly entertained the thought of driving non-stop to Beacon Hills, but he knows that’s pure idiocy. His stamina is good even for a wolf, but there’s no way he or the car can make it without at least a few hours of rest.

The next idea had been to stop at the next rest area and get some shuteye, but he can’t stand the thought of continuing to stay cooped up in the car. His ass is sore, feels as flat as a pancake. But more than that, the kid’s scent is beginning to permeate through not just the small space of the Camaro but directly through his skull and into his fucking brain, and it’s giving Derek a headache.

A road sign appears on the right, announcing what’s available at the next town. Gas, accommodation, food. All his needs met in one place, so might as well. Derek takes the curving ramp that will take them off the highway and into town.

Ten minutes later, the car rumbles to a stop, bathed in the sickly yellow gas station light, and the kid jerks awake. He rubs at his eyes and asks, “Are we there?”

“Not even close. We’re stopping here for the night.”

A gas station and diner and a Psycho-style motel are all stuck together on the same road, and in that order. Derek fills up the tank first, listening to the insects around them and the  _glug glug_  of gas, and scratches at his stubble on his cheek. The night is nippy and he’s glad for his jacket. The kid sits quietly inside the car, blinking groggily at a spot on the dashboard.

Derek realizes that he’s hungry, and he’s willing to bet that the kid is too. They move over to the diner.

For all its kitschy charm, the restaurant is old, sticky, and reeks of days-old grease. Several young men in grubby wife-beaters are seated at one of the booths. They sniff the air and turn their heads curiously when the two enter. But they won’t dare bother the kid, not with Derek beside him.

A woman with Egyptian eyeliner and checkered mini-skirt saunters over. It’s hard to gauge her age due to the thick makeup caked on her face. She may have added a few dollops of Nutella to her foundation. In a raspy voice, she asks, “Can I start you out with anything to drink? Coffee? We also have a nice selection of sodas.”

Derek rubs his face. Coffee sounds tempting but he won’t be able to sleep if he drinks this late. And he needs to sleep. He might get a cup to go tomorrow morning, though.

“Nothing for me.”

The waitress nods and points her pen. “Would he like something?”

“I don’t know. Ask him.”

“Anything for you, hon?”

The kid declines and the waitress tells them she’ll be back soon with some ice water.

Derek passes the menu over to the kid. “Get whatever you want.”

He leans back in the booth, cracking his neck and trying to ease stiff muscles. When the waitress returns, he orders a burger, forgoing the two sides that come with it. He doesn’t want grease pooling heavy in his stomach during the night.

“And for you, hon?”

“The grilled cheese,” the kid says, then immediately flicks a worried glance at Derek, as if he’s asking for assurance that it’s okay. He relaxes when Derek doesn’t say anything.

“And your two side dishes?”

“Double portion of fries. Can I do that?”

“Sure thing.” The waitress clicks her tongue. “Coming right up.”

Derek needs a smoke and he pulls out his carton from his pocket. The kid’s eyes flick over to something on the wall, and Derek sees that it’s a ‘ _thank you for not smoking_ ’ sign. He slides the carton back in.

The kid speaks up cautiously. “Where…where are we headed?”

“Would you know the place even if I told you?”

“…No, I guess not.”

Nothing more is said until their meal comes out. The plates are red and huge and Derek’s burger looks stark without the sides piled high around it. He picks it up with both hands and starts eating. It’s not the best, but it’s certainly not the worst, and it’s good to have something solid in his stomach that isn’t nicotine or Slim Jims. He’s two bites in when he realizes that the kid is sitting there, looking at him. He hasn’t touched his food.

 _What_ , Derek is about to say testily, then realizes what the problem is. Fucking hell. “Eat.”

It’s only then that the kid reaches eagerly for the bottle of ketchup. He squeezes a copious amount onto the corner of his plate. As expected, he goes for the French fries first.

“Beacon Hills,” Derek says.

Stiles lifts his eyes, confused. “Huh? Bacon?”

Derek feels stupid. He wishes he hadn’t said anything, but it’s too late to clam up. “We’re going to Beacon Hills. That’s where we’re headed.”

“Where’s that? I mean, in hours.”

“About a two days drive away.”

“Is that where you live?”

Derek draws in a long breath, scratches the corner of his eye with a thumb. “No. I haven’t lived there in a few years. I live in New York.”

“Oh. Is it a big place?”

“It has a Starbucks,” Derek says wryly.

“What’s a Starbucks?”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. “They didn’t let you out much, did they?”

“No, not really,” the kid concedes sheepishly. “We weren’t really allowed to go anywhere or do anything. We just stayed on the reservation.”

Derek is about to return to eating when he asks another question.

“Why are you going back?”

“My nephew is turning sixteen and my sister can be very persuasive,” Derek says dryly.

The kid tilts his head as if he doesn't quite understand, but doesn't pry further. “So… is that where all your family is? You know, where they live?”

Derek wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Less talking and more eating,” he says.

The kid flushes, embarrassed. “…Sorry. I didn’t mean – ”

“What’d I say?”

The kid zips it.

Done with his burger, Derek watches the kid eat. A bite of the sandwich, then some French fries generously dunked in ketchup. He really loves the stuff; the red mound is replenished over and over again.

It’s on the tip of Derek’s tongue to tell the kid to  _suck the ketchup straight out of the bottle, why don’t you_  but he keeps quiet. He’ll mean it as a joke, but the delivery will come out wrong, mean and curt and too sarcastic, as it always does, and probably hurt the kid’s feelings. Derek is good at that, unintentionally hurting feelings. He doesn’t want to risk it.

The waitress comes to check up on them. “That all for you tonight? Either one of you interested in some pie?”

Not him, but Derek hadn’t failed to notice the way the kid paused in awe as they passed the dessert display case. “What kind do you have?” he says.

“All out of everything but caramel apple. I don’t know why, it’s my favorite.”

“A slice of apple pie,” Derek says.

“Slice of apple pie it is.”

Moments later, she returns with a huge piece and a can. She cants her hip and holds the can up with a cheeky grin. “Whipped cream? You gotta have whipped cream on pie. No other way to eat it.”

"Sure.”

As she swooshes on a huge dollop, Stiles sits there, trying to look indifferent, obviously thinking that Derek’s going to eat the entire thing by himself. When Derek pushes the plate forward, his eyes go huge with surprise.

“For me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re giving me this? Really?”

“You don’t have to eat it,” Derek says, making as if to tug the plate back towards him. He’s strangely embarrassed.

“No, no!” Stiles quickly pulls it back towards him. He’s practically exuding excitement. Over a fucking slice of pie. “Thank you.”

Derek doesn’t answer.

Stiles glances at him. “I’ve… never had pie before. I saw it in a magazine once, like one of those cooking or housekeeping magazines. I think it was blueberry.”

He takes dainty bites of the pie, as if he wants to savor it and make it last. Then, when he’s nearly done, he looks up at Derek as if something’s just occurred to him. “Would… would you like a bite?” he asks.

Derek snorts and shakes his head, amused despite himself. “Finish it off.”

And soon, there's nothing but a smear of apple cinnamon filling and crumbs on the plate. 

Derek pays the bill, and they both step out into the night, the crickets chirruping all around them.

At the motel front desk, he’s greeted by a bald man with a knotted bird’s nest of a beard. Derek asks for a room, the cleanest one he has with two beds, and the man goes to unhook a key from the board behind him.

“You sure, two beds?”

“Two beds.”

“You got an omega out with you, I can smell. If you’re just going to end up pushing the beds together to stuff, I’d rather you get a room with one big bed.”

“Two beds,” Derek grits out. The man sees that his guest is not in the mood and hastily hands over the key.

“Okay then. Room 114. Out the door and to your left.”

Outside, Derek raps on the car window. “Get out. We’re staying here for the night.”

The kid is exhausted. He trudges behind Derek, clutching onto his bag with one hand, rubbing at his face with the other. 

The door opens to reveal a medium-sized room with two beds bracketed by end tables and a boxy television. It’s dim, even after Derek turns on the lamps, lending a mellow, hypnagogic atmosphere to the room. He takes the bed closest to the door, tossing himself down without removing the covers or his jacket. The dust-crusted blades of the ceiling fan looms high above him.

Stiles hesitantly takes the other bed. Everything he does is done with a modicum of fear, and Derek wonders just how much he’s been smacked around.

“Wash up first,” Derek says. At his words, the kid’s anxiety flares up again. But he wordlessly stands up.

“Do… do you want me to keep the door open while I shower?” he says.

“Why’d the hell would I want that?”

Derek drops his head on the pillow again. He dozes off, faintly aware of the sounds of the shower and the murmurs of a family a few doors down. They have a little girl with them, and she’s on the verge of a tantrum, while the mom keeps asking her to lower her voice.

Then the door to the bathroom opens, and a cloud of steam thickens the air. Stiles quietly walks out, his hair damp, shivering and redolent of cheap bar soap. He’s wearing nothing but a towel around his scrawny waist.

Derek squints at him through tired, gritty eyes, wondering why the fuck he’s not dressed. It seems like the kid is waiting for something to happen, gaze flickering over Derek nervously, goose bump-flecked arms crossed over his bare chest, but Derek is too tired to figure it out.

“We’re leaving early in the morning,” he grunts, setting an arm over his eyes, and then he’s asleep once more.

 

* * *

  

The next time he opens his eyes, the room is a hazy black. The world outside the walls are quiet and he can tell from the stillness around him that it’s the middle of the night. He’d thought he’d have no trouble sleeping until the crack of dawn, but apparently that’s not the case.

Derek fumbles out of bed, and ambles off to the bathroom to take a piss. He doesn’t turn on the lights, but even in the pitch black darkness he can make out his face in the mirror. He looks, as he always does, unhappy and pinched up, like someone who's lived his entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop. He rubs water over his cheeks and neck, then heads back out.

The small alarm clock on the end table tells him that it’s only three thirty. He’s planned on leaving early, but this is too early. He can’t fall asleep again either. Shit. He hates it when he can’t fall asleep.

He realizes that the kid isn’t asleep either. He’s lying silently in the other bed, cocooned inside a mound of sheets and blankets.  
Derek lies there in the dark, carding his fingers absently through his hair. The kid’s back in his clothes now, and they still reek of sweat and dust, but his skin smells…clean.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Derek says, voice coming out gruff.

“Sorry," the kid whispers, as if he's truly worried Derek might punish him for being awake. His eyes are a glint of hazel in the dark. “I…just can’t sleep. I have insomnia.”

Derek keeps quiet, not wanting to encourage the kid into a conversation, but the kid doesn’t need any encouragement.

“It’s insomnia, right?” Stiles says. “Not amnesia. I sometimes get the two confused.”

Several long seconds pass and Derek feels like a dick for not answering. “Yeah, you got it right.”

“I always get hemorrhage and hemorrhoid wrong too.”

“You have to use those words often?”

The kid hunches in on himself, and Derek realizes he's done it again, that thing where he sounds more brusque than he means to be. “Sorry, I know I sound stupid,” Stiles says.

“…No, it’s…” Derek sighs. “Fine. You don’t sound stupid. You don't..." He sighs again. "You don't have to keep apologizing for everything.”

"Oh, okay."

Derek picks up the remote control on the end table between them, and passes it over, a gesture of goodwill. “Here.”

The kid’s fingers are long, Derek notices, when they reach out to take the remote from his hand.

The kid fumbles with the buttons, as if he doesn’t know exactly which ones he needs to push, then the television blinks on. Derek stares at the screen as Stiles flips through the channels. There’s nothing but infomercials at this hour but he finally manages to find an old movie, something that came out when Derek was around ten. He remembers watching it with his sisters, sharing a huge bowl of buttery popcorn and laughing together at the funny parts.

“Is this okay?” Stiles asks, gesturing at the screen.

“Watch whatever you want.”

“Can I ask you something? I mean, may I ask you something?”

“…Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Derek.”

“That’s a nice name,” Stiles says. He hesitates. “Are you…Can I… is mine okay?”

Derek has no idea what the kid is trying to get at. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Oh, good, I'm glad. Thanks.” Stiles tucks his chin above his knee. He says quietly, “It was my dad’s name."

"Oh."

"Everyone called him John, but that was his given name and for some reason, even though he hated it, since he went by the name John, he passed it on to me.”

"...Yeah," Derek says.

They watch the movie in silence.

Surprisingly, Derek’s the one to break it by asking a question. “How long have you lived on the reservations?”

“Oh…” Stiles hums as he thinks. “Nearly all my life. I was sent there at around seven, after my parents passed away."

“What did you do usually?” He tries not to think of Stiles as a young child, small and scared and all alone.

“They had us in groups, doing different things. I tended the vegetable gardens for a while, a few year ago. I liked doing that, it was nice being outside all the time. But then I got older and they moved me to the workshops. That was...I didn't like that as much.”

Derek’s heard how the reservations were overflowing with omega kids. There were far too many of them nowadays. Every so often an omega would die under mysterious circumstances and there would be a news piece on the brutally inhuman living conditions they faced daily, but it changed nothing. No one cared all that much.

“What’s Beacon Hills like?” Stiles asks.

“It’s…” Derek doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he settles for, “It’s just like any other small town.”

The next time he glances over, the kid is asleep, buried under the blankets. His lashes create shadows on his cheeks, darkening the bruises beneath his eyes. His hand is curled close to his slightly parted mouth, as if he’s about to suck his thumb, and he looks young and vulnerable, something that needs to be protected. Derek looks at him for a long time.

Finally, Derek quietly turns off the television. He settles back against his bed and goes to sleep as well.

 

* * *

 

They leave the hotel early in the morning, when the sun is beginning to rise and the air carries a slight bite. They stop at the diner again, and Stiles has buttermilk pancakes while Derek sips his coffee. The stack of pancakes is huge and Derek had thought Stiles wouldn’t be able to finish them, but he’d clearly thought wrong. The kid has a garbage can for a stomach. 

By eight, they’re on the road. The next hours go by in easy silence. Stiles doesn’t smell as scared as he did yesterday. He’s starting to relax. Derek stops from time to time at a rest area to let the kid stretch his legs and take a piss. At one of them, there’s a woman walking her dog, a sedate golden retriever with a hoary muzzle, and Stiles asks Derek for permission if he can pet it. Derek answers yes, if the lady is fine with it. She is, and he watches Stiles smile in quiet delight as he crouches down.

"Your boy is very shy, no?" she asks, with a slight European accent he thinks might be Russian. 

Arms crossed over his chest, Derek watches Stiles scritch and coo at the dog. "He's slowly coming out of his shell."

"You're a good owner to him. He looks happy to be with you." 

He surprises himself by thanking her instead of setting the story straight.  _I just can't be bothered_ , is what he tells himself. _It's too much of a hassle to have to explain the situation._

Then they say their goodbyes and Stiles sits back in his seat inside the car, smelling of dog slobber and giddiness. 

They drive and drive, then the tank is nearly empty again and Derek pulls off the highway in search of gas.

“May I come inside with you?” Stiles asks and climbs out when Derek nods.

Inside the convenience store, Stiles wanders around, picking up everything and turning them over in his hands in fascination. He wants to try a few of them, but knows better than to ask Derek to buy him something. 

Derek selects a few of the snacks he saw Stiles examining, and pays for them at the counter.

“Here.” He hands over the plastic bag, heavy with snacks and has the distinct pleasure of seeing the kid look stunned.

“Here, try this. It used to be my favorite when I was your age.”

Stiles smiles. “You say that like you’re really old.”

Back in the car, Stiles asks if he can eat it. Derek surprises himself by telling him to go ahead, as if it’s no big deal. As if he’s never forbidden anyone from eating anything in his Camaro before.

He turns on the radio, fiddles with the channels until a song bursts out.

Stiles listens to it for a few seconds. “This one I know,” he says, and something about the way he says it, so pleased with himself, makes Derek grin inwardly.

"It's a classic," Derek says, and taps his thumbs against the wheel along with the music.

“How old are you?” Stiles asks, then seems to realize his mistake.

“How old do I look?” Derek says easily, before Stiles can apologize for being insolent and for asking things that are none of his business.

Stiles tilts his head. “Twenty-five?”

“Are you doing that thing where you dock five years off what you really think my age is?”

“No,” Stiles protests. “You look around twenty-five.”

“You’re close. Twenty-four.”

"The scruff makes you look older," Stiles says, then adds hastily. "But it's not bad. I like it."

He then promptly blushes, realizing what he's said. Cheeky little thing.

After awhile, Stiles falls asleep, cradling the bag of Cheetos, the tips of his fingers stained orange. Derek lowers the volume of the radio and turns down the AC so Stiles isn't too cold. He wishes he had one of those travel pillows to give Stiles so he doesn't wake up with a crick in his neck.

They’re still far away that Beacon Hills doesn’t even show up on the signs, but every mile forward puts them that much closer. Derek shakes his head, clearing the thoughts that are cluttering it up. At the end of the day, Stiles is cargo, something that needs to be handed over when he arrives at Beacon Hills. Nothing more, nothing less, and he’d do well not to forget that.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!

The motel they stop at for the night is better than the previous one. It’s cleaner, the smells aren’t as bad and the man at the counter isn’t as weird. As he did the night before, Derek asks for a room with two beds.

Once inside, they both flop out like starfish, exhausted and sore from being stuffed in a car all day long, until Stiles slowly sits up.

“Should I wash?” he asks.

Derek wishes Stiles had some clean clothes to wear; the ones he has on stink to high heaven. So he rummages about his duffel bag and produces something of his.

“Here,” he says. “Put these on after you’re done.”

He stares up at the ceiling while the kid showers and tries not to think of what comes next after leaving Beacon Hills. After he drops Stiles off, and it’s time for him to leave

When Stiles reemerges, he’s in one of Derek’s shirts and faded sweats that hang loose on his much thinner frame, and Derek doesn’t know what to make of the unexpected lump that thickens his throat. The sleeves hang over his knuckles and it’s…really cute.

Stiles stands a step from the doorway. He’s fully covered this time, but there’s that look in his eyes again, that anxious, worried look from last night at the other motel.

“Is there a problem?” Derek asks.

“No.” But Stiles doesn’t move, lower lip caught in his teeth. “Aren’t you going to…I mean…”

Derek looks at him. “Aren’t I going to what?”

Stiles shakes his head, cheeks going red. “Nothing,” he says, then lowers himself onto bed and buries his face in the pillow.

Derek decides to let it go. He tells Stiles to watch something if he wants. Stiles nestles into a cave of blankets and turns the television on.

Derek lies there with the blue from the screen lighting up his face, but then his attention wanders and he starts thinking of this and that, and his heart grows heavier. He tries to stop thinking. There’s nothing to think about, really.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Stiles reaching down into the side of his filthy knapsack that he’s keeping beside the bed and pull out a thin square of paper. Derek recognizes it as a photograph. It’s small, the size of his palm. Stiles settles on his side and stares at the photo as the tinny voices from the program murmur about.

Derek gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom. He takes his time washing up, rubbing the sheen of sweat and dirt from his skin, luxuriating in the sensation of hot water over his bunched up muscles, and when he steps back out, Stiles is sound asleep. The remote control is held loosely in his hand and Derek goes over to slide it out from the curl of fingers, careful not to jostle him awake.

He sees the photo placed on the bed, inches away from Stiles' nose; the kid had apparently fallen asleep before he could tuck it back inside the safety of his bag.

Despite himself, curiosity gets the best of him. Leaning over, Derek picks up the photograph. It’s badly wrinkled, the edges fading. A man and woman stand smiling into the camera. Between them, held in the man’s arms, is a little boy, perhaps four, perhaps five. Shaggy-haired, gap-toothed, chubby-cheeked Stiles is adorable, and Derek can’t contain the sharp twinge in his chest at the thought of this oh-so young boy several years later, alone and scared as he’s forced to navigate a new life on the omega reservations.

There’s a sudden rush of fear from below him and Derek drops his gaze to see Stiles awake, looking up at him with wide eyes and bated breath, knowing that there’s absolutely nothing he can do if Derek decides to rip up the photo or throw it out. It’s most likely the last item he has of his parents, the reason why he’s refused to let go of his bag for even a second.

Derek hands it back to him. “Goodnight,” he says quietly.

He goes back to his own bed, and lies down, the inexplicable heaviness growing still. He hopes Mason is good enough for the kid.

 

* * *

 

It’s morning again and they’re back on the road.

Stiles sits disheveled in the passenger’s seat, rubbing at his face, belly full with waffles and chocolate milk.

He stretches like a cat, half of his face scrunched and asks, “How much further do we have to go?”

“We’ll be there by this afternoon,” Derek says. He smiles. “Sick of being stuck the car with me?”

“The opposite, actually," Stiles says, making Derek glance at him in surprise. He admits quietly, "This is fun. Kind of wish it was longer.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t tell Stiles that he’s been thinking the same thing.

The roads blur on by on either side of them. Stiles entertains himself by staring out the window, reading the signs. The silence is companionable.

An hour or two hour later, something catches Stiles’ eyes and he scans his neck for a proper look.

“Cabazon Dinosaurs, take ramp at next exit,” Stiles reads off the huge billboard to the side of the road. “What’s that?”

“It’s a roadside attraction. The world’s biggest T-Rex or something.”

Stiles frowns in confusion. “Aren’t they extinct?”

Derek can’t help but laugh. “It’s made of concrete. It’s not real.”

“Someone made a concrete dinosaur? Out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Guess so.”

“Cool,” Stiles says. “Sounds like something I’d have done, you know, if I had the money and the land.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I used to love dinosaurs when I was little. The triceratops was my favorite.”

Derek drums his fingers on the steering wheel, torn for a few seconds, then makes a decision. “You want to go?”

“Really?”

Derek shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “It’s not far off.”

Since the answer to his question is obviously a big fat yes, when the exit appears, Derek drives off the highway.

Stiles’ presses his face to the window. “Whoa! Look!”

The dinosaurs loom huge and tall off in the distance.

Derek parks the car and moments later Stiles is bounding out like an eager puppy. “Whoa,” he keeps saying, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Whoa.”

Turns out that there are two dinosaurs, not one as Derek had wrongly assumed, and he has to admit that they’re indeed pretty cool.

They’re not the only ones who decided to make a stop; several haggard looking parents shout at their kids to watch where they’re going. Stiles matches the younger children in enthusiasm, staring up at the gigantic concrete sculptures with the awe usually reserved for the Grand Canyon.

Derek holds up his phone and snaps a picture of Stiles trying to wrap his arms around one of the legs. He turns the phone around to show Stiles the result.

Stiles' hand goes up to touch his cheek, frowning. "Ohh. Is that what I look like?" He sounds upset.

"What's the matter?"

"...I'm not very..."

"Not very what?"

"Not very nice to look at."

Derek raises his brows, then snorts. "You're nice to look at."

"Really? You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. I like your face. A lot." He'd like it better without the bruises, but they'll fade. The real issue is to make sure they never occur again. But that's not something Derek can do anything about.  

Stiles smiles, lower lip caught between his teeth, so inordinately pleased that it's fucking adorable.

Derek lets Stiles take in his fill of the T-Rex and the Apatosaurus, then decides to have lunch before they get back on the road. He’s tired of driving.

There’s a food stand nearby, and Derek buys a hot dog for each of them and a root beer float for Stiles. They sit at a picnic bench and eat. The day is hot, but not unpleasantly so, and the outlines of the mountains are beautiful around them.

Once back in the car, Stiles leans back in his seat. “That was awesome,” he breathes out. He looks exhilarated, and there’s a grin on his face, so different from the timid, half-smiles that he’s worn until now. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” is all Derek says, as if he doesn’t feel all puffed-up with pride.

“Best day ever,” Stiles says. “Seriously, best day ever.”

He falls silent, oozing contentment, sleepy with the food and the heat.

Derek can remember Stiles like this, the image of him happy and content replacing the sad little kid that sat huddled in front of the store when Derek first picked him up.

It’ll have to do.

 

* * *

 

 Three hours later, the car starts making a strange noise. Derek swears under his breath and pulls the car over.

“What is it?” Stiles asks. “Is something wrong with your car?”

“Seems like it.” Derek slides out of his seat, the hot afternoon sun immediately heating up his skin.

“Is it something you can fix?” Stiles asks.

Derek pops the hood and examines what he can. He doesn’t know much about cars, but the engine is steaming, and the answer to Stiles’ question is no. No, he can’t fix it. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

Stiles is anxious, brows knitted and Derek wants to reach out and smooth the lines away.

“It’s not a big deal,” he tells Stiles.

“I don’t know, isn’t this how all horror movies begin?” Stiles asks. “Not that I’ve seen a lot, like two in total to be honest, but they all seemed to follow a common theme.”

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” Derek says, and decidedly tries to ignore how cringey a line that is. He also tries to ignore the tint of pink on Stiles’ cheeks and what that blush might mean.

He calls roadside assistance, and they assure him that someone will be out in a jiff, just sit tight and wait. So that’s what they do, the AC cranked on as high as it goes. Stiles asks him about New York, and where he lives and what he does, and Derek answers the best he can. He tries not to imagine Stiles with him in his apartment, filling up the empty places.

About fifteen minutes later, a truck trundles to a halt behind them. The half-rugged, half-beer blousy man that emerges introduces himself as Tony as he holds out a hand for Derek to shake. He nods amiably enough at Stiles, then gets right down to business, ambling over to the Camaro to see what can be done on his part. The news he offers isn’t hopeful; whatever is ailing the car can only be fixed at his shop. Derek suspected as much, but it’s irritating as hell.

So, having no other option, Derek lets Tony hook up the Camaro, and they cram inside the front of his tow truck. Stiles is in the middle, and he presses close to Derek so that no part of his body brushes up against the other man in the small space.

They drive for about twenty or thirty minutes until Tony pulls up in front of a grungy car shop that reeks of petrol.

A wolf is there, working on a vehicle. His name is Tripp, according to the stitching over his left chest, and he’s enormous, with a body like huge boulders stuffed into worker overalls. He acknowledges them with a brusque nod. Clearly not a people person.

The day is turning hot, the sun beating down on them. The metal around the garage makes the glare only more difficult to bear. Derek fishes out a few wrinkled dollars in his wallet and hands them to Stiles.

“Go get yourself a snack from the vending machine,” he says. Stiles gives him a smile, close-lipped yet genuine, like he’s happy that Derek is taking care of him.

When Derek turns back to hear what the mechanic has to say about the state of his car, he catches Tripp watching Stiles with hooded eyes. He doesn’t like it. He really doesn’t like it. The man makes Derek uncomfortable.

“You want some chocolate?” Tripp asks in a gruff voice when Stiles returns, holding out a thin bar he’s fished out from a pocket.

“No, thank you,” Stiles says politely.

Derek doesn’t miss the way the kid shies away from the wolf, stepping closer to Derek. He’s already caught on that Stiles is scared of men, especially when they’re in groups. Derek clasps a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and squeezes gently, soothing him. Wordlessly letting him know that Derek wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. He’s strangely gratified that Stiles is seeking him for protection. Stiles stiffens at first, then the tension seeps away. He twists open the bottle of Pepsi and offers it to Derek first. Derek isn’t thirsty and he doesn’t want soda, but some part of him tells him that it wouldn’t be good to refuse in this situation. He takes a sip, the sharp, cold fizz hitting his throat, and hands it back to the kid.

He can still feel Tripp’s eyes on Stiles, heavy with intent.

“He’s an omega,” Tony states, wiping the grease on his hands with a dirty cloth.

Derek doesn’t answer, waiting to see what the man’s getting at.

“Cute little thing, in’t he? Missing a finger, to boot.”

He’s what? Derek turns to see Stiles quickly jerking his right hand down to his side. He’s gone pale. Frightened eyes dart a surreptitious glance at Derek, scared of what his reaction might be.

Derek will deal with it later. For now, all he wants is to leave this place.

“Can you fix the car?” he asks Tony, impatient. This may not be the beginning of a fucking horror movie, but these men are still giving off a bad vibe.

“Yeah. The engine’s gone kaput, but sure I can fix it. Just a matter of switching out a few parts. Won’t take long, maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

“How much?”

The mechanic sucks at his front teeth. “Not that much, but not that little neither. Nothing that’ll break your wallet, but tell you what. How ‘bout we do a little old-fashioned bartering. You give us your omega for an hour and I’ll fix it up for free.”

“Give him to you an hour,” Derek repeats.

“Yeah. Tripp over there has a thing for damaged goods. Fetish of his, guess you could say, and I don’t care much for it, but it makes him hot and that I like. One hour will be long enough to take care of things for both of us. Just go over to the restaurant over there and eat some ribs while you wait. Best in the state. What d’ya say?”

Something dark and angry rumbles within Derek. He wonders how the man can say that without batting an eye. Go eat ribs while they take turns fucking Stiles. Stiles, who is hunched in on himself at the moment, not even breathing, scared shitless that Derek’s going to say yes and hand him over.

“No. I’m not going to do that.”

“Thirty minutes, then.”

“No.”

Tony snorts though his nose, loudly, like a bull. “That your final answer?”

“It is. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask again.”

The man shrugs, plainly displeased. “Your call. Just trying to help out.”

“Yeah, you can get help out by fixing this as soon as you can so I can be on my way.”

"You got it, boss."

Derek is standing there, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Tony work when Stiles yells out his name in panic. “Derek!”

But he’d already seen it coming, fully expected an attack, and he moves swiftly out of the way, just in time as a ham hock of a fist punches the air exactly where his head would have been seconds before. Tripp swipes and swipes, with all the power of an angry beast, and Derek somehow manages to evade them all. Then something clips him on the side of his face, like a mallet to a gong, and his entire head thrums in pain. Another punch to the face and Derek goes down, hard. Something huge and heavy _thuds_ on top of him, straddling his midsection. Then, a fucking hand wraps around his throat, cinching over his Adam's apple and begins to squeeze and squeeze. 

There’s a bad, very bad moment when he thinks, _he knows_ , he’s going to pass out, black dots swarming the edges like a hungry army of ants. He struggles as hard as he can, sucking in what air he can, because he knows what these two have in mind for Stiles once he’s out of the picture, but he can’t fucking breathe and he knows in a matter of seconds it’s going to be all over.

Suddenly, there's a meaty  _thonk_ and the weight lessens, just a smidgen, and the fingers wrapped around his neck go slightly slack.

He realizes that Stiles, bless him, had smashed a wrench over Tripp’s head. It hasn’t hurt the huge fucker, not in the least, but it does startle him long enough to loosen his grip around Derek's throat.

Knowing he won't get another chance, Derek brings his knee up as hard as he can.  The wolf crashes down and Derek uses the momentum to rain down blows on his head, his chest, anywhere he can, until Tripp is in a crumpled heap. Now that his body is incapacitated, Tripp's mouth is moving, snarling things about that _dirty little omega_ , and Derek has had enough. He's fucking had enough.

Without stopping to think of the ramifications of what he’s doing, he plunges his claws deep into the meat of Tripp’s biceps and starts tearing the arm off at the shoulder. It’s not easy, and it takes effort, but it’s an effort he’s willing to make. Finally, the meat begins to unstitch like two pieces of cloth and Derek keeps going as Tripp howls in pain under his knee. He tosses the limb on the wolf’s stomach, where it flops limply like a dead fish.

It's over. Fuck. He can't believe that just happened.

“You tore his arm off!” Tony wheezes out, looking as if he might faint any second. His friend is moaning, rolling on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

“Yeah, no shit. Now fix the car,” Derek orders, swiping the blood off his face with his sleeve. He sees Stiles standing there, pale as a ghost. “Before I do to you what I did to him.”

He can’t remember being this angry, not since Kate. He can’t understand why people are incapable of leaving other people alone. Fuck Kate, fuck these pieces of shit. 

Tony works at the engine with shaking hands, and no one says anything for a very long time. At last, he pulls back. “All done.”

“It’s going to work without problem?”

“Yes, without a hitch. It’s fixed. Good as new.”

His heartbeat says he’s not lying, but Derek will believe it when he sees it. When he tells Stiles to get in, the kid does as he’s told, scrambling hastily inside in a flash of thin arms and legs.

Derek twists the key and the engine purrs to life, and slams the door shut. He peels off the lot so quickly that the rubbers on the wheel squeal loudly and Stiles lurches out to grip the armrest. The garage becomes nothing more than a dot in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t stop until they’re far away, and then he suddenly, viciously pulls off to the side of the road and screeches to a stop.

“Derek, you’re bleeding. Let me – ”

“What happened to your finger?”

He can’t believe he missed it.

Stiles sits back in his chair and licks his lips. He’s panicky again, all the blood gone from his face. “I…it’s nothing. I’m fully functional even without it. I don’t have any problem doing anything. You won’t even notice, I swear.”

“What happened to it?” Derek asks again.

Stiles looks trapped, as if he’d rather be anywhere else, but he knows he has no choice but to answer. “…It happened a few years ago. I wet myself because they wouldn’t allow me to use the toilet and an overseer broke four of my fingers on this hand. One of them got infected and had to be amputated.”

Derek stares down at the steering wheel.

“Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “I swear it doesn’t hinder me at all. If it grosses you out, I’ll keep it hidden.”

He’s angry beyond reason, so fucking angry that he can’t see straight, and he doesn’t understand why. It’s not as if he’d been there and could have stopped it from happening.

Stiles mistakenly thinks that anger is meant for him. “Are you going to return me?” he asks in a small voice.

Derek doesn’t know why he doesn’t come out and tell him the truth. “Why the hell would I return you for something that’s not your fault?”

For a second, Stiles looks absolutely stunned.

Reaching out, he gently strokes the side of Stiles’ face. He can’t help himself. He can’t help the tenderness that colors his voice. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

He wants to tell Stiles that no one is going to hurt him now, no one would ever dare, not with Derek to look after him. But he can’t, because it isn’t true. Stiles isn’t his to protect. To keep. Everything ends the moment they arrive at Beacon Hills and step inside the house.

God, why couldn’t it have been Stiles his parents brought for him when Derek needed an omega for his own ruts all those years ago?

"Yeah, but it's okay now, right?" Stiles leans into his caress. “Derek. You’ve been so good to me. I’m so glad you’re my alpha.”

He drops his hand away. It needs to be said. There’s no getting around it. He's not going to lie to him.

“I’m not your alpha,” Derek tells him.

Stiles blinks in confusion. “You’re not? But…but you will be, right?”

“No.”

“But…I don’t understand. Why’d you buy me?”

“I didn’t. My sister did. The one I was telling you about.”

“So, I’m…not yours?” There’s a tremble to his voice.

“…No. You’re not. You belong to my nephew,” Derek says. “Mason.”

“I thought…I thought I was yours. I thought you’d bought me.”

His own voice comes out stiff and angry and rough. “Well, you thought wrong. Mason’s birthday is tomorrow and you’re his present. You got dropped off at the wrong place and my sister asked me to pick you up along the way over to Beacon Hills.”

“Don’t you need an omega?”

“…No, that’s the last thing I need.”

The kid doesn’t say anything more.

Derek returns his eyes forward and continues to drive.

They’ll be in Beacon Hills in less than two hours.

 

* * *

  

The place hasn’t changed.

Six years is apparently not enough time to change a small town like Beacon Hills.

Any excitement he might have harbored during the initial stages of trip has been doused like water to a candle flame, and he parks behind the other vehicles crammed in the driveway in a state of utter numbness.

Everything is so similar to the way it was when he left that it’s almost eerie. Surreal. Everything looks the same. The towering oak tree to the side of the front yard that provides them shade during the harsh summer. There’s the swing bench out on the porch, the one carved by his grandfather. He can’t recall the number of times he’d sat there with Laura while eating ice cream. Lemon sorbet. That had been her favorite. He wonders if the sorbet shop is still there on main street.

He sits in his car for a long time, overwhelmed as he tries to take it all in. God, the memories. So many memories. He can’t believe he’s back. He can’t believe he ever left.

Sounds of the party drift over, reminding him that the journey isn’t over. The hard part has only started.

Time to face the music.

He thinks the kid is sleeping, but he can see Stiles’ face reflected in the car window, eyes luminous in the glass.

“We’re here,” Derek says unnecessarily. Stiles’ mouth parts, but he makes no sound other than a soft sigh. Derek steps out, clapping the car door shut, and stands there, the wind brushing along his forehead.

The scents that envelope him are so familiar that for a few seconds he’s dizzy. It’s the scent of home, a place that carried his childhood for the first eighteen years of his life until he hightailed it out of there like the coward he was. Where he was born, where he had been the happiest.

Where his entire pack had nearly died. A place that could have been a grave for a dozen wolves.

Stiles slowly gets out of the car, hugging his bag like a teddy bear against his chest. He looks small again, the way he did when Derek first picked him up in front of the store three days ago. Three days that feel like a lifetime ago.

“Come on, lets go,” Derek says gruffly. He’s out of sorts, with Stiles, with this entire business, and his way of coping is to retreat into himself and, as Laura used to not-so-fondly say, act like a grumpy asshole. Things are awkward between them again, stilted, as if they’ve just met.

His feet guide him on autopilot down the stone path beside the house that will lead him to the back yard, where the party is ongoing. But as he makes his way down the path, he’s startled by the sight of a woman coming towards him, and then it belatedly dawns in his molasses-slow brain that she’s his sister. Laura.

She’s holding a girl in her arm, but she reaches out to hug him fiercely. “Oh, Derek. I thought it was you. Thank you so much for coming. It’s so good to see you.”

She squeezes and squeezes, as if she’ll never let go, then presses a kiss into his cheek before pulling away. With a jolt, he sees that there are tears in her eyes. She brushes them off, and smiles at the toddler curled shyly against her chest. “Natty, say hello to uncle Derek. He’s my brother.”

The girl gives him a toothy smile, chubby cheeks bunching up, and waves her arm. He’s never met her before until now and she’s adorable, her black hair curling around her face.

Laura looks past him to where Stiles is standing. “And this must be Stiles. Oh my goodness, welcome! Did you manage to find each other okay?”

“We did,” Derek says. Stiles is quiet, face withdrawn.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Laura says again. “Both of you.”

Someone walks over to them and Derek glances up.

Mason.

He’s grown since Derek last saw him six years ago. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, his arms rounded with hard muscles, much closer to a man than the baby-faced boy Derek remembers him as.

Mason greets him first. “Hey uncle Derek,” he says cheerfully.

“Hello,” Derek says. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks for coming,” Mason says. Then, he sucks in a deep breath through his nose, nostrils flaring.

“Who’s this?” he says, his attention going to Stiles.

“This is Stiles,” Laura says. “And guess what?”

“What?”

“He’s yours! I got him especially for you. Happy birthday, sweetie.” She gives Stiles a gentle push on the back and he takes a small, tottering step forward.

“Well, say hello,” Laura says with a laugh. When there’s only silence, she leans forward to peer at Stiles. “You can talk, can’t you?”

“Yeah, of course he can talk,” Derek says in irritation.

“…Hi,” Stiles says in a mumble. “Nice to meet you.”

“Not bad, mom,” Mason says, grinning wide.

“Yeah?” Laura is visibly relieved. “You like him?”

Mason looks him up and down. “Yeah, I do. He’s alright.”

“Go back to the party, sweetie.”

Mason dashes off to join a group of teenage boys. Derek overhears him bragging about his birthday present and that starts off an excited flurry of conversation, his friends listing all the things he should do to his omega. Derek tries to tune the words out.

Laura takes the kid by the shoulder and points. “Stiles, you must be hungry. See that tent over there? Go help yourself to anything you want.”

Stiles thanks her and walks off.

Derek sits down on one of the chairs set out for the guests. He wants a smoke, but he knows how much Laura hates smoking. She’ll rip his lips off if he lights up on her property.

The back yard has been nicely set up for the event and people mingle about, holding plates of cake and red solo-cups. He’d half-expected a bouncy house and a magician, and it’s a bit of a shock to realize how far off the mark he was. It’s a party for a young man, because that’s what Mason is. A young man who’s old enough to legally possess an omega and all that it entails.

Laura takes a seat beside him. “He’s not half-bad, is he?” she asks.

Derek rubs at his scruffy cheeks, watching Stiles walk listlessly down the length of the buffet table, plate clutched in his hands. “He’s not that great.”

Laura looks at him strangely. “I’m talking about Mason.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Mason. Your son. He seems great.”

She starts reminiscing about days gone by. The sun is warm on his face and his eyes drift shut. He can imagine himself as a teenager again, before Kate, when all was perfect with his world and he’s simply enjoying a day outside with the rest of his family.

One more day. One more day, then he can leave.

 

* * *

 

Someone is shaking his shoulder.

“Hey. Wake up, sleepyhead.”

He opens his eyes to see Laura smiling down at him. He must have dozed off without realizing it.

The party is over. The place is emptying and the last of the guests have said their goodbyes. Off in the horizon, the sun is setting, turning the sky a brilliant orange and purple.

He glances around as he rises to his feet. “Where’s Stiles?”

“Showed him to his room. He seemed a bit overwhelmed and I thought he could use some rest.”

“Oh.”

They start walking together towards the house, passing the wilting balloons and cups. She links her arm through his.

“I’m so grateful you’re here,” she says. “I need you to know that.”

He hums. She keeps squeezing him, as if she can’t believe he’s really there.

"You look good."

"Thank you."

“Are you seeing anyone these days?” Laura asks. “Something tells me the answer is going to be a big fat no.”

“You’d be right.”

“Have you gone on any dates since then?”

“No.”

“Have you done anything with anyone the past few years? Anything at all?”

His cranky silence is answer enough.

“Holy crap, Derek,” Laura says in astonishment. “At this point, ninety percent of your body composition must be backed-up semen.”

Crass, but…probably not entirely incorrect.

“Well, the reason I’m asking is because a few of my friends at the party are interested and have requested that I pass on their numbers if you find yourself similarly interested. Amber isn’t bad. She’s gorgeous and sane. Rena isn’t bad either, but she has a massive, massive wolf fetish, and I guess it’s up to you to decide whether that’s good or bad.” Laura laughs and shakes her head. “Only you could get a bunch of women wet while drooling on a patio chair.”

He doesn’t give a shit about Amber or Rena any of her friends. “Is Stiles sharing a room with Mason?” he asks.

“Oh, no,” Laura says, flapping a hand as that makes no sense. “Mason needs his space and we have more than enough rooms to spare. I gave Stiles the guest room on the second floor.”

He knows Mason will try to fuck Stiles soon. He could smell the lust on his nephew, broiling under his skin. Derek doesn’t want to be around when it happens. He dreads the thought of it. An image of Stiles flashes behind his eyes, writhing naked beneath Mason’s body, and he shakes his head in an attempt to dislodge it.

They’ve reached the house now and he braces himself. Six years have passed since he stepped foot inside this childhood home of his. It’s surreal, so surreal, and he holds his breath as Laura slides opens the veranda door and he steps inside.

Not much has changed in here either. Natalie’s toys clutter the living room, and there are some of what he assumes are Mason’s knickknacks strewn about, but everything else is the same. Laura has kept nearly all of the furniture, and nearly all of the decorations. Same, but different.

They head upstairs.

“I made up your old room,” Laura tells him.

And so she has.

“What are you thinking?” she says, when he’s silent for too long.

He glances around the room, arms crossed over his chest, taking it all in. Just like downstairs, everything is the same, as if frozen in time. “Brings back memories,” he grunts.

“Doesn’t it?”

They each stand on either side of the doorway, both of them silent until Laura blows out a sigh.

“I really wish you’d stick around.”

“I’ll stay and help with the cleanup,” Derek says, and she rolls her eyes impatiently.

“That’s not what I mean, dingus, and you know it.”

Dingus. Now that’s a name he hasn’t been called in over a decade. He rather misses it.

“Whatever,” Laura says, then turns around to face the hallway to leave. But before Derek has the chance to be relieved that she’s finally letting him be, she turns around again.

“No one is going to think any less of you if you stay.”

“That’s sweet,” he says flatly.

“Screw you, Derek,” Laura says in exasperation and not without some anger. “I don’t know what moron told you that it’s sexy to mope and brood around like Edward Tweedle-dick, but trust me, all it does is make people want to punch you in the teeth. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, but – ”

“I don’t want to hear – ”

“ – Kate is not your fault.”

“Don’t say her...” He sighs. “Don’t.”

“What, you don’t want me to talk about her? Don’t say her name, like she’s some all-fucking powerful being we have to tiptoe around? No fucking way.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Derek, it’s not your fault. She was a psychopath, a predator. Your only fault, if you can even call it that, was being too young to know any better. Look at our pack now. We’re flourishing. But we’re incomplete. We need you. If you run away, you’re letting her win.” She spreads her hands out. “Okay, I’ve had my say. You know how I feel.”

“No, go on, please,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

She gives his shoulder a brief squeeze. “Get some rest. I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner. And wash up, for Pete’s sake. You may be hot stuff but even you can’t pull off three-day old underwear.”

“My underwear is not three days – ”

She’s already gone.

He washes up, puts on pair of clean boxers as instructed. On his way back, he bumps into Stiles in the hallway.

“Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek draws in a deep, discreet breath, but can’t find any traces of Mason on the kid, not yet anyway. Stiles looks like he wants to say something, looking at him with all this hurt in his eyes, but Derek doesn’t give him the chance.

“Goodnight,” he says, and goes back into his room.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, he meets Laura’s husband, who’s arrived back from a conference on the other side of the world. He travels too often for Laura’s liking, and Derek’s been made aware of how often they fought over it last year.

They shake hands, and Derek accepts when Aaron offers him a cold beer. He listens to Aaron talk about his job and other things, responds when he can so that the conversation isn’t too one-sided, and he watches Stiles play blocks with Natalie in the living room.

Then, dinner is served, and they all sit around the huge table. Stiles is seated next to Mason. He’s quiet, fork in his hand. The enthusiasm with which he ate his food during the trip is gone, and he picks at his plate.

“Do you not like the food?” Laura asks, about ten minutes into the meal. “Stiles?”

He lifts his head up as if he’s realizing she’s talking to him. “Sorry?”

“Is the food okay?”

“It’s fine. I’m just …I’m not very hungry.”

“I wonder if you’re coming down with something.” Stiles keeps still as she presses a hand to his forehead. “No, don’t have a fever, I don’t think.”

Mason suddenly speaks up. “Mom, can I change his name to something else?”

“To what?”

“To something more… normal, I guess. The one he has sounds weird. I don’t really like it.”

“What were you thinking of?” Laura asks.

“I don’t know. Jamie? Isn’t that better? Or maybe Noel.”

“Would you be alright with that, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“We can change that easily then. Just a few papers to fill out.”

Then there’s another small party, now that the family is all together. Laura brings out a chocolate cake, and they all sing happy birthday in the dark. Mason blows out the candles in one huff, and there’s clapping and the pop of streamers. Derek gives him his present and Mason digs out a wrist watch from the box amid the shredded wrapping paper. He seems pleased enough with it, thanking him with a wide grin, and Derek is satisfied.

Afterwards, they’re all herded into the living room to watch a movie. Derek’s lingering in the back, when Laura comes to stand beside him. She bunts him playfully with her hip. They stand in pleasant enough silence, until she gestures towards the two teens sitting on the couch.

“He doesn’t talk much, does he? Was he like that all the way here?”

Derek shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “Guess he’s tired.”

“I think Mason likes him.”

He's cold all over. “…That’s good.”

“I’ll have to prepare the heat chamber in the basement. It’s been so long since anyone used it. I can't believe I'm at the age where my son is old enough to - Where you going?” she asks in surprise when she seems him pushing off the wall and moving away.

“To take a dump,” he says. He walks off before she can say anything else. Tugging open the veranda door that leads to the back of the yard, he steps outside, the darkness of the forest night rushing around him. The air is cold, the leaves rustling in the wind.

He pulls out a cigarette and slips it into his mouth. God, he could smoke an entire pack right about now.

He can’t bring himself to back inside. Instead, he gets into his car and drives out to town. The stores aren’t closed yet, and he finds what he’s looking for. When he returns with his purchases, the house is silent, everyone getting ready to go to bed. As he passes through the hall, he can hear Mason in his room, playing some game on what Derek thinks may be his cellphone, and Stiles… Stiles is in his own room. He’s awake and for a minute or two, Derek stands in front of the door, staring down at the door handle.

He pulls himself together. Nothing good can come of this. 

With a sigh, he returns to his bed, covers his eyes with the back of his arm and tries to shut everything out. 

 

* * *

  

During the night, he dreams of Stiles being presented to Mason wearing nothing but a red bow wrapped around his cock. He wakes up grumpy, the morning sun streaming through the curtains he forgot to close and piercing his eyes.

He eats breakfast with the rest of the family. It’s Sunday, and everyone is slow and lazy. They all do their separate things. He sees Laura outside the backyard with Aaron, laughing together and stealing kisses as they clean up the mess from yesterday’s party.

He’s happy for her. He’s glad that she has someone.

Having nothing else to do, he wanders around the house until he ends out on the patio deck. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there, staring out at the forest, until someone calls his name.

He lifts his head to see Laura there, purse and keys in hand. “Yes?”

“Aaron and I are leaving to go to the store. You'll be fine by yourself, right? We’ll be back in two or three hours.”

“Sure.”

Mason’s gone to lacrosse practice and Stiles is up in his room. Maybe keep him company, if you want.”

“Got it.”

“Will you be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah.”

He sits there for another ten minutes, then goes upstairs. He finds the items he bought yesterday, still in their boxes, and carries them out to the hallway.

The door to Stiles’ room is closed. As quietly as he can, he places the boxes containing the sneakers and picture frame on the floor. Hopefully Stiles will like them. Hopefully they’ll help him remember Derek fondly.

He turns around and freezes. Stiles is standing there, staring at him.

“…You’re leaving?” he asks in a small voice.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I’m done here.”

Stiles closes his eyes, then opens then again. “When will you be coming back?”

Derek shrugs. He doesn’t know. The pull of home is strong. Laura is right; he belongs with his pack, and if his pack is in Beacon Hills, that’s exactly where he should be. But he can’t bring himself to stay. He still can’t forgive himself for nearly getting his family killed. He can’t.

“Can I come with you?”

“No,” he says tersely. “You can’t fucking come with me.”

Stiles will have a stable life here. He can take classes and get an education. He’ll fit in better with people his own age. Derek’s positive Mason will treat him well. He’s sure Laura hasn’t raised her son to be an abusive dickhead. He has to believe it.

“Guess I’ll be Jamie or Noel the next time I see you. Whenever the hell that is,” Stiles says.

Derek realizes in dismay that the kid is crying. He’s crying, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin.

“Take me with you, Derek. Please. I want to stay with you.”

And something deep in Derek breaks off.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Without knowing what he’s doing, he grabs the kid by the hand. Stiles’ draws in a sharp breath, surprised, but before he can say anything, Derek is pulling him into his room and pushing him down on the bed.

Stiles stares up at him with wide eyes, wondering what this means, yet too scared to ask lest it break Derek out of whatever spell he’s under.

Derek tugs the jeans off and flings them away to the side. They’re Mason’s jeans, and Derek hates the way they smell on Stiles. The white boxers underneath belong to Mason as well, and Derek doesn’t even take the time to admire what would have been an otherwise tantalizing sight. He rips them off, and at last, the red haze that’s been threatening the edges of his vision all morning fizzle away, and the hot anger in his chest settles down into something more manageable.

Stiles’ dick is adorably small, no longer than the length of his finger. Derek greedily nuzzles it with his mouth, hears Stiles let out a soft sigh. They spend a few minutes kissing, until Stiles breaks off from the need to catch his breath.

Derek catches him discreetly trying tuck his damaged hand away, but Derek reaches out and gently gathers it in his own. He kisses the fingers, lingering on the nub, telling Stiles silently that there's no need to hide, and is gratified when the worry diminishes from Stiles' eyes. Gratified to know that Stiles has come to trust him in this short period they've known each other. 

“Aren't you… aren't you going to take your clothes off too?” Stiles asks shyly, plucking at his shirt. So Derek sits back on his legs and pulls it off, followed by his pants and underwear. There’s a moment of amusement when Stiles’ eyes go round. He knows omegas are notorious for exaggerating in the bedroom in an attempt to boost their alpha’s delicate egos, but Stiles looks so _awed_ that Derek can’t help the fondness curling around his chest.

He remembers his days locked up in the heat chamber, sullen and shaking violently, the omegas his parents rented sitting off in the corner at Derek’s demand to keep their fucking distance if they know what’s good for them. This is so different from then. Stiles is _beautiful_ , he smells _so right, so perfect_ , and Derek can't keep his hands off of him. He takes his time, nipping and tasting and licking as he fingers Stiles open. When he's ready, he goes slow, soothing Stiles with little kisses, murmuring little words of encouragement as Stiles tries to take him in.

Stiles has no idea what to do with his hands, wanting to hug Derek but not knowing whether he’s allowed to touch him without permission. Derek helps him by taking his arms and guiding them around his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs encouragingly, and Stiles hugs him fiercely.

“Derek, please keep me. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good.”

He curls his legs around Derek’s hipbones, urging him in even deeper. He’s sobbing out devastating little noises that are driving Derek crazy.

And just then –

\- the door swings open and Mason steps inside.

“Uncle Derek, have you seen – ”

Stiles’ arms tighten around Derek’s shoulders, hugging him close and Derek can smell the fear flare up again like a bonfire. But it’s not Mason he’s scared of. He’s petrified that Derek is going to kick him out, hand him back to Mason.

“You’re boffing my omega,” Mason says.

“Yeah, I am.”

Derek keeps half his attention on his nephew even as he continues to thrust into Stiles, hands gripping the slender hips. He hopes the other alpha isn’t stupid enough to try to attack him. He would truly hate to have to hurt Laura’s son.

You’re boffing my omega,” Mason says again, a bit more incredulously. That is one observant kid.

“I’ll buy you a car,” Derek tells him, and he means it. “I’m keeping him.”

“Okay, cool,” Mason says readily.

Underneath him, Stiles’ mouth trembles. “You’re keeping me?”

Derek can’t help the tenderness from seeping into his voice. “Yeah, I think I will.”

Stiles’ large eyes brim anew with tears and the sight of it is all it takes. Derek is coming, and Stiles follows soon after, stiffening from his shoulders all the way down to his toes before slumping on the bed.

He lets out little hitching gasps, trying to catch his breath. The instant he’s able to speak, he asks, “You mean it?”

Derek strokes the side of Stiles’ head and the wolf within him preens at the way the kid leans into his touch. He doesn’t know whether he’ll end up back in Beacon Hills, or stay in New York, but no matter where it is, Stiles is going to be with him. “I mean it. You’re staying with me.”

Stiles’ legs are still lifted up, bent at the knees to form the shape of an M and Derek pushes his thighs apart to spread them out even further, enjoying the view. His hole is puffy pink and spasming, a thin pearly white line drooling out. Backed-up semen indeed.

Taking one of the feet dangling in the air, Derek runs his thumb down the arch and gently presses a kiss again the heel. He suckles on the big toe, scraping it with his teeth. As soon as he can, he’s going to make the time to eat Stiles out undisturbed, maybe use his wolf tongue to fuck him open.

He glances over to where Mason is standing, watching them with his mouth parted and eyes glazed.

“Scram,” he tells his nephew, who flushes a deep red.

“I’ll, uh, yeah, scram. Yeah,” Mason mumbles, and he manages to find his way out.

A hand gently curls around his wrist and he looks back down at Stiles. He’s perfect, his skin rosy and flushed. Derek still can’t get over how adorable his cock is.

“You can’t change your mind. You said you’d keep me.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

Instead of joining Stiles on the bed by lying down, Derek lifts him up by the hips and pulls him forward, setting him easily on his lap. Stiles presses a kiss on Derek’s cheek.

“Shit,” Derek groans. “What am I going to tell Laura?”

“You can tell her you fell madly in love with me, and that you couldn’t bear to let me go,” Stiles suggests. He says it casually, as if he’s ready to say he was just joking if Derek balks.

Derek thinks about it, then nods. “Yeah, I’ll do that. That’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so not happy with how quickly these two ended up in each other's arms professing their undying love, but I guess an unrealistic relationship is bound to develop if you write with nothing but Sterek endgame in mind. 
> 
> The Cabazon Dinosaurs are a roadside attraction in Cabazon, California. I've never been myself and the only info I have on it was gleaned from about two articles I read for the sake of this story, so please excuse any and all inaccuracies and artistic liberties. I'm also not quite sure how it would work location-wise to the fictional town of Beacon Hills, but please pretend with me it's about two hours away.
> 
> Aaaaand... (last one, I promise), only as I was finishing up did I realize I very badly mucked up Derek, Laura and Mason's age. The math is all over the place and I have no idea how to fix it without gutting everything, so also please pretend with me that Laura had a kid in her mid-twenties, and he somehow grew to be 16 yo in about 1/3 of that time frame.


End file.
